


just a moment

by that_this_will_do



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Underage - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-09
Updated: 2020-10-09
Packaged: 2021-03-08 00:26:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,083
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26906590
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/that_this_will_do/pseuds/that_this_will_do
Summary: George was pulling into his driveway when the word appeared. First, in tiny, distinct letters across his right index finger, then on the back of his hand, then curling around the inside of his forearm, the writing getting messier as it went.HelpOr, promises are hard to keep.
Relationships: Alexander Hamilton/George Washington
Comments: 4
Kudos: 55





	just a moment

**September 26th, 2004**

George was pulling into his driveway when the word appeared. First, in tiny, distinct letters across his right index finger, then on the back of his hand, then curling around the inside of his forearm, the writing getting messier as it went.

_Help_

By the time the ink hit his pulse point, the tip of an H spiking almost into his palm, the vein beneath was visibly throbbing. His heart pounded. For a moment, he did nothing at all, keys still in the engine, car beeping at him, and then he lunged for a pen.

A panic shuffle returned one beat-up sharpie, and he forced himself to take a breath-- _Calm the hell down, Washington_ \--before shoving his shirtsleeves up and making a large black mark at the end of the latest L. The pen still shook, clumsy with his left hand, and he drew a sloppy arrow pointing left. With another breath, he transferred hands and wrote in tight, clean letters at the top of his left wrist:

_I’m here. What do you need?_

A moment passed with nothing. That terrible blankness again. George took the time to finally switch the car off, grab his briefcase, and push open the driver’s door. 

More words started appearing as he was reaching for his doorknob, quick, smudged, nearly illegible. 

He got in the door as quickly as possible, sharpie already out of his pocket again, and drew a line through the middle of the tangle. The writing stopped. Beneath it, he wrote:

_BREATH_

And then, the only useful training he got finally kicking in, added:

_Watch the line. In --- > _

_Out <\--- _

He drew slowly down his own arm, breathing in time with it and only hoping they were doing the same. After four breaths, stopped and wrote:

_Are you someplace safe? Where you will be safe for the next hour?_

After a moment, a shaky, slanted word appeared:

_yes_

_OK, I’m going to go wash my arms off and then we can talk. I’m here. I promise. Can you keep breathing like that while I do?_

Another little _yes_ appeared and George exhaled heavily. It wasn’t much, but it would have to do. He loosened and pulled off his tie, walking back to the bedroom. He tossed it on the bed and then removed his workshirt, belt, and shoes as quickly as feasible, pulled on an old UVA t-shirt and stumbled into the bathroom. 

The other words disappeared too, smudging and vanishing the way pen ink does under soap. Wherever _they_ were, whoever they were, they at least had a sink. Or access to water and soap. That, at least, was reassuring.

He’d never been able to picture whoever it was that he was connected to. His soulmate. Even though he knew how old they were, their approximate birthday, had witnessed the strength of their mother’s love, he never let himself imagine. In fact, he tried not to think about them. The child. Fourteen now. Faceless and nameless, born with a 35th regiment tattoo on their left shoulder, a gift from an idiot who’d given up hope.

And apparently in need of help.

_OK, I’m here now. Are you still breathing?_

Almost as soon as he’d finished writing it out on his left wrist, an answer appeared on his right.

_yes_

Still small, crooked letters, but cleaner than before. 

_What’s going on? Big picture._

A moment passed. When the next letters appeared, the shaking was back.

_hurricane_

_everything destroyed_

For the second time since the writing first appeared, George’s stomach dropped. A wave of nausea passed through him. He tried to focus.

_Where’s your mother?_

Because if he knew anything about his soulmate, it was that his mother was fiercely protective and adamant that he-- _Military Man,_ she’d called him--would never reach out to her child. Not while they were still a child. Not until they were older, _and even then a good man wouldn’t ask for anything_ . If the child was writing to him, they needed to tell their mother. George made her a promise that he would never break. _Don’t hurt my child. Don’t even talk to him._

Unless.

_mama’s dead_

Unless. George’s hands were shaking by now too, and he tried to steady, couldn’t have the child dealing with that too.

He didn’t bother with sorry. He was asked for help.

_Where are you now?_

_Florida. we’re in a gym, I think. I don’t know. We were in St. Croix a few days ago, but we were evacuated. No one said anything to me. I think they think that I’m someone’s kid. But I’m not anyone’s kid anymore and I don’t know anyone in America and Neddy’s dead and Peter killed himself and they’re going to send me back but I don’t know anyone there either and I’m alone alone alone alone alone alone_

The writing became illegible and again, George shifted the pen to his left hand to draw a line below it.

_Breathe. You’re not alone._

And then, knowing that this was probably the biggest, most unfair, most human mistake, he wrote

_Can you do something for me?_

The reply--still shaky, still sloping little letters--came quick as anything.

_yes_

_Can you figure out the name of the gym you’re in? Or what street its on?_

It took half an hour for the name to appear on the inside of his once again clean right wrist. During that time, he microwaved a dinner and got an old backpack from the top of the closet. Stuffed a few t-shirts, sweater, underwear, and jeans inside the main compartment.

_Florida City Community Center_

As George read it, doing the math in his head, more appeared beneath it

_what’s your name?_

_George Washington_ , he wrote back. Funny, he still couldn’t make himself ask. But it didn’t matter.

_I’m Alex._

Faceless only, now. _Alex_ , who was from somewhere near St. Croix, born in January, fourteen years old, dead mother, with the 35th regiment tattoo on his shoulder.

_Are you going to come for me?_

A gift from a reckless kid who’d given up hope. Who’d cursed the universe for this fate. Who’d sworn not to reach out, not to talk to, not to harm.

_Yes. I’ll be there by 9 AM tomorrow. You don’t have to come with me. You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do. But no one is going to send you anywhere you don’t want to go. Things will work out._

_I promise._


End file.
